


Forsaken

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [46]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4774427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A grieving Floki ruminates on a loss far greater than mere death</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forsaken

Torstein hadn’t bled much. The blow that killed him had stopped his heart so quickly that the only blood that seeped from his wounds was that which had already been present; without a heartbeat to keep up the flow, the trickle had quickly faded.

Even so, his body was not a pretty sight, and it reeked. The infection that had indirectly led to his death had permeated him so completely that even as Floki approached where the man's body lay, he felt a twinge of nausea at the smell. He had smelled worse things, however, and what he truly needed now was a few moments alone with what remained of his beloved friend here in Midgard.

He settled down, crossing his legs, and gently petted Torstein’s now-cool cheek. “You were a better person than me,” he said quietly, looking into the familiar, ice-blue eyes. Now death-dulled, it seemed only a dream that they once had twinkled in near-perpetual merriment. “You were a better person than most of us. Surely Odin will give you a place of honor in Valhalla, and there you will fight on in endless glory as the warrior you always were.” His own eyes, dry and itchy from the battle, began to moisten, and he sniffled.

In the distance, he heard Ragnar talking to the Christian—the king’s son; the arrogant insect who had led the army against them only the summer prior. As much as Torstein’s death odor was foul, hearing Ragnar talking so casually with Aethelwulf made Floki want to vomit even more. He couldn't help a tinge of anger at Torstein for forsaking him here to go play with the gods, but a far greater, smouldering rage was aimed at someone else: Someone whose abandonment of him could not be blamed on mere death. Part of him still loved Ragnar, and still longed for the bond they once had, but increasingly, it seemed as if that would never again bloom, like a flower choked out by weeds—and one noxious weed in particular.

He had been of two minds about Athelstan staying behind with Ecbert. On the one hand, he was annoyed that the priest wasn’t fighting alongside them, and had instead stayed, supposedly to help Lagertha with the settlement, but more likely to conspire with Ecbert. On the other hand, having Ragnar’s pet Christian with them on this expedition would probably have made him want to crawl out of his own skin with sick anger.

For a time, he had almost liked Ragnar's English slave. He was grateful to him for saving Ragnar’s life after Earl Haraldson had attacked, and over the next couple of years, it seemed he was finally beginning to leave his false god and become a true Northman—a true member of Ragnar's family. Helga and Torstein both seemed to love the small, soft-spoken man, and Lagertha and the children downright adored him. Floki had tried to learn what they saw in him, and join in their affection, and yet somehow, he never could, especially not after the failed sacrifice at Uppsala. Though Floki deeply honored Leif's choice to take the place of the duplicitous Christian—a choice he himself would have made, if not for Helga pulling him back from it—he still missed the man, and often resented Athelstan for forcing someone to have to make the choice in the first place.

It seemed guilt over this—over indirectly causing Leif's death—had led the priest to start trying again to fit in better in the months following, during the war with Jarl Borg, and Floki's recovery from his own near-death injuries. Yet for every step Athelstan took toward being accepted by the rest of Kattegat, he took several more steps toward Ragnar. And that, Floki could not abide.

It had started, it seemed, after Lagertha left. Perhaps kicking himself for his poor choice of a dalliance with Aslaug, Ragnar seemed to be looking for something—anything—to keep him distracted from the reason he had lost his wife. Floki himself had tried to be there for him. He had tried to keep him entertained and well-full of ale while the wound of the loss faded, yet Ragnar was having none of it. Sure, he had stayed close while Floki was recovering, but once it was certain he was on the mend, Ragnar drifted, like a boat loosened from its moorings. And there was only one moor that boat was drifting toward.

He recalled the first time he had seen them close—too close. Aslaug was abed with pregnancy sickness, and Ragnar was brooding over his brother’s continuing descent into the barrel. He had stared at the fire in the Great Hall, his battle-roughened face seeming to grow more lines by the moment. Then Athelstan breezed in, all pink-cheeked and bright-eyed from the swirling snow flurries that were floating on the North winds. At the sight of the priest, Ragnar’s face had lit up like the brightest summer sun, and he rose to greet the man. They embraced before Athelstan had even finished crossing the threshold . . . and the embrace simply didn’t stop—at least not for several long moments past seemly. Ragnar had never held his friends that way. This was an embrace he reserved only for those closest to him: his wives; his children. Not even Rollo, even when the brothers were at their closest, had been the recipient of such tender closeness.

Helga, sitting at the table next to him, had elbowed him in the side when she caught the stare. “Floki!” she hissed.

“What?” He turned to her, his cheeks still hot.

“Don’t be rude.”

He often relied on her to tell him when he was being inappropriate. He seemed not to notice when he was being too loud, or too talkative; she kept him in check. He usually loved that about her, but at this moment, he did not. “I am not being rude, Helga,” he said, touching her cheek. “I am angry.”

She had pressed him for an explanation then. He had not been able to give one. In the years since, however, he was well aware indeed of why he was so upset. Every embrace, every touch, every gentle, loving smile that Athelstan got from Ragnar was not, by rights, his to receive. For a count of years long since lost, Floki had been the person Ragnar kept by his side, beyond all others but Lagertha and his children, but no longer. There was only one person now who occupied that space, and that person was a foreigner. A Christian. A former slave whose loyalty would forever be in question. And, Floki was increasingly certain, _ergi_. He had poisoned Ragnar with his talk of a foreign god and foreign lands, and was now also poisoning him with the weakness of his state of nature. The man Floki had admired—worshipped nearly as much as the gods themselves—was growing as soft and unmanly as Athelstan himself.

Were they coupling? Floki had wondered. Sometimes, it seemed that was a possibility. Indeed, when Ragnar had first brought the captive back to Kattegat, Floki considered whether that was one of the uses to which his friend intended to put the man. There were enough whispers in the village to that effect, after all. Floki dismissed them, however. He knew of how deeply Ragnar loved Lagertha, and how well-satisfied she had kept him physically. Ragnar had no need of a bed slave. Once, when Lagertha was on her third horn of ale, she had confessed that the pair had propositioned their new slave, not long after he'd been brought home. But, she had told him with some measure of disappointment, the priest cited his temple vows of celibacy, and had turned them down. Ragnar had never been inclined to use someone against their will, so that couldn't have been why he kept Athelstan around, then.

And yet . . . He had heard from Arne many years ago that the priest had once, at least, forsaken those Christian vows. Charged by Ragnar with the task of cleansing the planned sacrifice, Siggy's daughter Thyri had supposedly attended the Christian's body with more than a cloth and water. If he was willing then to ignore his vows, what more could he have been willing to do later on, when his priestly garb and hair were but a wisp of memory?

But Ragnar, surely, would not have done so, even if the priest had proposed such things. Floki knew that Ragnar had shared women with other men before. He had also even shared another woman with Lagertha once, a few years before their children were born. These things Floki could not judge. He himself had been in such situations, of course. He looked down at the body that lay before him, and easily, the memories came to mind: those strong limbs casually entwined with Floki's own slender, lanky ones, while the soft sweetness of Helga writhed between them. Once, while their heads were all swimming from a particularly fine crop of mushrooms, they had even kissed, to Helga's amusement. Yet these things, done out of love and friendship and sheer hedonistic joy, were of course normal and not at all a thing of which to be ashamed. Neither of them was ergi. Neither of them would ever have submitted wholly to the other. A touch—even a kiss—upon naked flesh whilst the sharp scent of a woman was still in the air was a thing which any Northman might have done. Using a man as a woman would be, however, was something else entirely. When Athelstan was a captive, and then a slave, it might have been proper, if questionable. After he had integrated with the rest of the ways of the Northmen, it would have been unthinkable.

Floki only wished such thoughts were indeed unthinkable for him. For at least a year now, they were all that came to mind nearly every time he saw Ragnar and Athelstan together. Ragnar clearly loved the man far more than he ever had loved Aslaug, such that cruder folk had occasionally joked about the king having taken another wife. Was Athelstan indeed fulfilling every purpose of that role?

Floki again gazed into Torstein's empty eyes. In an angry moment last spring, Floki had spat an unkind word about Ragnar and Athelstan's closeness, and Torstein's usual puppy-like jovial expression had suddenly hardened.

"So what if that is where Ragnar's hand was?" Torstein had said flatly. "You're only angry it's not you he's touching that way."

The white-hot rush up his cheeks threatened to set Floki's head on fire, and it was all he could do not to strike Torstein in that moment. Only Helga, arriving at their table with a dish of dried fruit, was able to calm him down. He had, in the months since, put that exchange out of his mind, but now, as he grieved for the loss of the man who had so angered him then, he began to wonder if his funny, light-hearted friend might have been a Seer of truth.

He glanced up: Ragnar was weaving his way among the bodies, heading toward them. Floki shuddered, and then heaved a breath, the sour air filling his lungs. Placing a hand on Torstein's stiffening arm, and wishing he could will it back to warmth, he hung his head, and began to cry.


End file.
